Rabbi Josh Zweiback

Yom Kippur 5767
Written collaboratively with Rabbi Ken Chasen

Lessons in Love

            This is my ninth Yom Kippur at Flint Center . I feel at home here with you--and not just because we spend an awful lot of time together in this room. But also because of what we do here together. We pray. We open our hearts to each other and to God. We see old friends. We make new friends. We celebrate the new babies and the new couples. We’re sad for those who are going through tough times, battling illness or hardship.

            We think about the friends who are missing. The ones who sat in the row in front of us or a few seats over. The ones who, this year, are davening in the Beit K’nesset shel ma’ala—the Sanctuary in Heaven.

            It didn’t always feel so “homey” for me, though. I remember my first Yom Kippur in this place. My hands were clammy. My throat was parched. I was as nervous as an 8^th grader at a school dance.

             I’ve never told you this but on that first Yom Kippur, there was something in particular that I was anxious about. After all, we didn’t know each other so well back then. There was something I wanted to share with you but I wasn’t sure how you’d react. I wasn’t sure what you’d think. I didn’t want to make a bad first impression.

            So there I was, getting out of my car on the 2^nd floor of the parking garage just a few hundred yards from this bimah. The moment of truth had arrived. Would I or wouldn’t I put on this white garment known as a kittel.

            My sense was that I’d be the only person in attendance at Flint Center wearing a white bath robe.

            Now the gleaming white canvas sneakers, I thought there’d be a few fellow travelers as it were on that road but the kittel, I’d be flying solo there I thought.

            I remember turning to Jacqueline in the car and asking, “Do you think this is a bad idea? People will think I look ridiculous. In fact, I kind of think I look ridiculous. No, it must be said, empirically, objectively—I look ridiculous. Maybe I shouldn’t wear it.”

            And she said (and this is only one of the thousands of reasons I love her so): “Well, you do look ridiculous but you should wear it anyway. It’s what you do. Besides, you wore it at our wedding and it looked ridiculous then so if you could wear it there, you can wear it here.” I defy you to resist that logic by the way.

            So I did and you didn’t laugh. Except for those of you who did but you had the decency to be discrete about it.

            I was in fact the only one sporting the kittel. Now, just nine short years later, the trend is truly catching on and I’m grateful beyond words to see those of you out there embracing this glorious custom. It would take too long for me to thank you all by name—Dan and Saul—but please know that I am grateful.

            This is the kittel that I wore at my wedding. Strange custom, this. Traditionally a Jewish man wears a white robe, known in Yiddish as a kittel, on three occasions: at his wedding; on Yom Kippur; and, to his own funeral for it is in this same kittel, according to tradition, that a man is buried.

            Interesting connections. One’s wedding day, Yom Kippur, burial. Sounds like the opening line of a borscht belt joke: What do marriage, Yom Kippur, and death have in common?

            But the truth is, this question is a lot more than the opening of a bad joke. It’s an opening into a deeper understanding of this day and of ourselves, and it could help us, perhaps, live richer, more hopeful, more meaningful lives.

            If ever there was a time when we needed help living more hopeful, more meaningful lives, it’s right now. These days the world seems like an especially hopeless, meaningless, hate-filled place. War in Iraq . War in Israel . Genocide in Darfur . Incendiary cartoons followed by violent riots. A head of state calling for the destruction of Israel . A state-sponsored cartoon contest lampooning the Holocaust. Catholic churches fire-bombed by radical Muslims angry at the Pope’s labeling them “violent.” By the way and with all due respect, there really must be a better strategy than fire-bombing churches to convince people that you are not violent.

            In a world that sometimes seems to be filled to overflowing with hatred, in a world without hope, in a world of fear and endless anxiety, we search for a balm, some kind of elixir, an antidote to the venom, the poison which reaches into us, no matter how much we may attempt to avoid it.

            But it’s out there, the antidote, a weapon powerful enough to vanquish hatred, to combat despair. Can you feel it? Can you sense it? The antidote is love.

            “Love?” you may wonder.  How can love vanquish hate?  Well, first of all, contrary to what you might have heard about the “Old Testament” God being a God of fire, brimstone, and vengeance, our Jewish tradition actually emphasizes God’s loving attributes.  Our texts are loaded with descriptions of a God who loves the Jewish people and all humanity. As for the importance of love between people – regardless of what they look like or what they may believe –the message of our tradition is made completely clear by Rabbi Akiva, the great sage of the 2^nd century, who famously taught that Judaism can be boiled down to just one mitzvah: v’ahavta l’reicha kamocha—love your fellow human being as yourself.

            But lots of traditions emphasize love. Lots of religions and cultures value it. What’s unique about Jewish perspectives on love?  Well, perhaps we can find the answer by following this white robe – this kittel – to the three moments in Jewish time where it appears, and where we learn what’s expressly Jewish about Jewish views on love.

Love Is a Verb

            On my wedding day, just over ten years ago, I put this kittel on for the first time. My father, watching me with a look of surprise on his face, turned to my mom and in a stage whisper said, “Why is our son wearing a butcher’s apron?” (Dad, don’t worry, in the spirit of Yom Kippur, I forgive you for that comment.)

            The first lesson about Jewish love comes from the traditional text signed right before the bride and groom enter the chuppah. The ketubbah, a 2000 year old document still used today whether in its traditional form or in contemporary renderings, includes this promise from bride and groom: “I will serve, honor, support, and sustain you...”

            What it doesn’t say is “I will love you.” The word “love” isn’t even mentioned. It’s not a very romantic text at all.

            But does that mean that a Jewish marriage, as described in the ketubbah, is loveless?  Hardly.  The wisdom of the ketubbah is how it defines love – it’s the promise to serve, honor, support, and sustain.  That’s what Judaism calls love.  Under the chuppah, we don’t promise to feel a certain way about each other. Instead, we promise to serve each other in a particular way. We promise devotion… action… concrete signs of our commitment.

            Stephen Covey, the author of 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, tells a story about a man who approaches him after one of his seminars. The man says, “Stephen, I’m really worried about my marriage. My wife and I just don’t have the same feelings for each other we used to have. I guess I just don’t love her anymore and she doesn’t love me. What can I do?”

            “The feeling isn’t there anymore?” Covey asks.

            “That’s right,” the man replies, “and we have three children we’re really concerned about. What do you suggest I do?”

            “Love her,” says Covey.

            “But I told you,” the man responds, “the feeling just isn’t there anymore.”

            ”Love her.”

            “You don’t understand. The feeling of love just isn’t there.”

            “Then love her. If the feeling isn’t there, that’s a good reason to love her.”

            “But how do you love when you don’t love?” replies the man.

            “My friend, love is a verb. Love—the feeling—is a fruit of love the verb. So love her, serve her. Sacrifice. Listen to her. Empathize. Appreciate. Affirm her.”[1]

            The great Chasidic master, the Baal Shem Tov, taught a similar lesson a few hundred years earlier.  The Baal Shem Tov was approached by a man who had suffered a painful falling out with his son, whom he felt had abandoned God and turned to evil.  “What shall I do?” asked the man.  Replied the Baal Shem Tov : “Love him more than ever.”

            This story makes it clear that our tradition understands “love as a verb” beyond just marital relations.  Even for those of us who are not currently married or who will never marry, this notion of love as a verb runs throughout our tradition.  And it’s not just for our own families. It’s a global obligation. The Torah commands us to love our neighbor and to love the stranger. Near and far we are called to serve.

            Now since these are commandments, we should ask, from the perspective of Jewish law, what is entailed in this obligation to love others? Maimonides explains that the mitzvah of loving our neighbor as ourselves requires us to “visit the sick, comfort the bereaved, bury the dead, and rejoice with bride and groom.”[2]

            Whether it’s the love sanctified under the chuppah or the love we share with our children or parents, with our friends or even with strangers – the requirement of our tradition ultimately is to act in a loving way toward others. It’s not about what we feel. Our job is to serve them. To care for them. To provide for them. To support them.

            Plagued by feelings of hopelessness, despair, hatred, and fear, this is the way out.  This is the balm to soothe our troubled souls. It’s not about feeling loving thoughts for those around the world. It’s about embracing the enduring discipline of loving other people – both those inside our personal circles, and those well outside.  It’s a kind of love one can extend both to family members living under the same roof on this beautiful Peninsula and to endangered populations living under thatched roofs in a refugee camp in Chad .  Afraid that this world has turned to evil?  Do as the Baal Shem Tov says:  “Love.”

            This is the Jewish wisdom about love that we Jews discover while wearing the kittel on wedding day.

Love Means Never Giving Up Hope

            On Yom Kippur, the kittel shows up again, and a new layer of meaning is added to our lesson about love.

            I mentioned earlier that it is a common misconception to look upon the God of our Bible and our prayer books as a seeker of vengeance.  While there is a dose of “fire and brimstone” in our Torah and elsewhere in our sacred literature, on the whole, our tradition and certainly our Yom Kippur liturgy describe a God that is endlessly patient, true, and loving… and that means forever ready to forgive our failures, always eager to meet our sincere attempts at teshuvah with an unconditional pardon. 

            “If only my spouse were like this,” we tell ourselves… “or my parents or my children or my friends.” Or, maybe if we’re being really self-reflective, we add, “if only I were like that.”  If we felt that the people in our lives were as willing as God is to forgive, I’m certain that we would all apologize, and be forgiven, more often.

             Now, of course, we don’t know whether God is actually this forgiving.  But our tradition describes God in this way. We believe in a forgiving God.  It’s one of Judaism’s many precious gifts to us – an example of forgiveness that inspires us and all humankind.

            You know, it’s tempting to dismiss this Forgiving God as a proper role-model for us humans by saying, “well of course God is forgiving—God’s God after all! But I can’t be forgiving like that. I’m just a person.”

            But our tradition anticipates this excuse and so to counter this temptation to let ourselves off the hook, to tell ourselves that it’s OK not to be as forgiving as God, our High Holy Day machzor is packed with references to God as Avinu, our Father, our Parent. 

            This is a model that is very close to us. Each of us is someone’s child, and many of us are or someday will be parents.  We know what we yearn for in these relationships.  We know what we wish to give to our own children when they fall short of their best – not fire and brimstone and vengeance.  We wish instead to teach them that we are confident that they can be more.  That they can change and improve. We want our children to know that we believe in them, that we will never give up on them, that it will never be too late to make things right with us.  That’s love. That’s what they crave from us. It’s what we want to give to them.

             On Yom Kippur, we come face to face, through the prayer book, with such a loving Parent. God loves us enough never to give up on us. The God of our tradition believes that we can change, that we can turn, that we and this world of ours can be better. That, ultimately, we all will be worthy of God’s forgiveness.

            In the Midrash, the sages teach: “In this world, he who is twisted can be made straight…”[3]

            That’s an affirmation that we could really use right about now in our world.  Our fears and our despair are fueled by a feeling that our planet has been overrun by twisted souls intent on destroying America, Israel, the West—us. We fear that nothing can be done to change the situation. That it will always be like this and that there’s no way to make it right.

            But because it’s Yom Kippur, and we are here, we are blessed to have a different prism through which to view the situation.  It’s the prism of hope, borne of the belief that only love can produce in us – the belief that human beings and humankind can change. That teshuvah is real. That people—even twisted, wicked people—can someday change and be worthy of forgiveness.

            That’s what the Yom Kippur lesson about our loving, forgiving God reminds us: we must never surrender our hope that a time of forgiveness and reconciliation will someday arrive. 

            At times like these, retaining our trust in that eventuality is an existential necessity: It’s how we hold on to our love for humanity. It’s how we save ourselves from a descent into darkness.

            Now, please don’t misunderstand. I’m not suggesting that we are somehow commanded by our tradition to feel love for and offer forgiveness to those who feel only hatred for us.  But we are called by our tradition to summon the belief that “he who is twisted can be made straight,” and that time never runs out on that possibility.  Our tradition teaches that God entreats us to repent, believes we can repent, until our dying day. As long as we’re alive, hope must abide.

             But we might ask ourselves: Are we Jews “Pollyannas” to believe in holding onto hope until that dying day? I mean look around the world. Really? People can change? Well, some of you remember Yom Kippur, 1973. How many of you were in shul on that day? You remember that day. It was a time of paralyzing fear for the Jewish people. If your rabbi had stood up in shul that day and said to you—on the very day in which Israel ’s future and the future of the Jewish people seemed so imperiled—if that rabbi had said:

“‘He who is twisted can be made straight.’ Don’t give up hope. Reconciliation is a possibility. People and nations and cultures can change. Don’t give up hope. Someday, someday soon Anwar Sadat and Menachem Begin will shake hands and swear off war and death between Egypt and   Israel . It will happen by the end of this decade, I tell you. And this peace will be in force a generation later.”

            What would you have thought? Wouldn’t it all have seemed impossibly far-fetched to you? You would have thought that your rabbi had lost his mind, that he was being naïve, a “Pollyanna.” But that rabbi would have been right. All of those things happened. So until we cease breathing, hope must always abide.

            The Loving God of the Yom Kippur liturgy is not willing to give up on us. God will not despair of humanity. Despite our many shortcomings, despite all our sins, God believes that we can change, that we can be better.

            The question is: Can we mimic God’s love for humankind?  Can we cling to the notion that deep inside, we and others possess a purity that can make us worthy of forgiveness, worthy of this white garment? The garment of the angels?

            This is the Jewish wisdom about love that we discover while wearing the kittel on Yom Kippur.

Love is Stronger than Fear

            Some day, I hope many years from now, I’ll wear this kittel for the last time. It’s the garment in which I’ll be buried. In death, the kittel returns to witness the final lesson we learn about the Jewish understanding of love.

            Probably the most famous text in our tradition about love and death comes from the Song of Songs where we learn: aza cha-mavet ahava—“Love is as strong as death.”[4]

            How is love as strong as death and how does this teaching serve as a balm, provide comfort in fearful times?

            Amos Hakham, a contemporary commentator, explains this verse as follows: “Just as every person will inevitably be subdued by death, so, too, every person will inevitably be subdued by love—it’s impossible to avoid it.” So according to this interpretation, death conquers all AND love conquers all and this is the way in which death and love are equally strong.

            From this perspective, we are hard-wired to love. We can’t escape it. This should give us hope. Hatred is not the default. Hatred is not part of the design. Hatred is not inevitable even though it seems that way sometimes.

Love is the default. Love is part of the design. Love is inevitable.

            Another interpretation of “love is strong as death”: a person who loves completely is willing to sacrifice his own life—is willing to die—for his beloved.[5] Here we get at a another meaning that can help us vanquish fear: love is so powerful that it can conquer even our fear of death. On some deep personal level, I’ll bet every one of us here understands this.

            I love life. I hope this kittel won’t become my burial shroud for a long, long time. But as much as I love being alive, there are things I love more. I love my children more. I love my spouse more. So if my kids or my wife needed my kidneys, my heart, my lungs, my breath, my everything—I wouldn’t think twice.

            And I love my community more. My love for the Jewish people is so deep that if I had to, if it came down to it, I’d sacrifice my life on its behalf.

            I don’t know about you but there’s nothing in this world I hate so much for which I’d be willing to make the same trade.

            The realization of our finitude—the cold, hard fact that none of us is getting out of here alive—can inspire us to ask the biggest questions: what’s it all for? What’s it all mean? When I go, what really do I leave behind? What’s of lasting value? What, if anything, is permanent?

            The verse from Song of Songs suggests the same simple answer to each of these profound questions: love. Love is what gives life meaning. Love is what enables us to face our fear of death. Love is what we leave behind. Love is what is of lasting value.

            Look, it is a frightening world. These days, these Yamim Noraim, are, as their Hebrew name suggests, days of awe, days of fear. Some of the scary things in the world, there’s not so much you or I can do about them. Some of these things are so big, so far away, so global, that we as individuals feel powerless to change them.

            We can respond in a variety of ways. We can turn our backs, try to shut the world around us out. We can try to escape, busy ourselves with other things so we don’t have to think about it.

            But there is another way to respond. A way deeply rooted in our tradition. A way, on this Yom Kippur, this Day of Atonement, symbolized by this simple white garment.

            We can turn in love to those around us and serve them and support them.

            We can commit to clinging to a parental love for humanity… an eternal readiness to forgive and be forgiven… a relentless hope that redemption is possible, that people can change, that the world can be improved.

            And we can face our own mortality a little more bravely with the faith that love and the meaning it brings to our lives is as strong as death, it’s as powerful as our deepest fears, every bit as inevitable as our ultimate demise.

            There will always be fear, hopelessness, and despair. But this need not turn our souls to black.  There remains a pristine white… of love.  May it always envelop us.